


As the Cat Climbs Up the Holly

by LayALioness



Series: Quit Playing With My Mind Sugar [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, I’m thinking about getting Clarke a puppy for Christmas.” He pauses for a minute while O stares at him. “Or just a dog in general, I guess. It doesn’t have to be a puppy.”</p><p>His sister narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Is this code for something?” she demands. “You said getting a dog was the pre-baby phase.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Cat Climbs Up the Holly

**Author's Note:**

> This fic serves three purposes. I've been wanting to add something to this universe for a while now, plus I've been wanting to write a dog fic for Kristen for a while now, and also RavenclawPianist has been sending me some very inspiring Cat vs Christmas stories recently, so here we are.
> 
> title from Barkin Around the Christmas Tree, which is a dog-themed version of Rockin Around the Christmas Tree, and is as ridiculous as you'd expect.

“It should not be this difficult,” Bellamy grumbles, moving Lyra out of the way for the _fifth_ time that night. At this rate, they’ll barely finish decorating the tree by midnight.

“Like owner, like cats,” Clarke smirks, and Bellamy wants to argue, but she sort of has a point, since Percy is currently draped over her shoulders like a scarf.

“They’re way clingier than I am,” Bellamy sniffs, glaring at Lyra as she tries to sneak back in under the tree, like he can’t see her if she moves slowly enough. It’s cute, but it was cuter the first two times. Now it’s bordering on annoying.

Just bordering, though. Lyra knows she’s his favorite.

“You forget I live with you now,” Clarke says, wry, and he grins stupidly, like she probably knew he would. He can’t really help it.

Her lease came up just a month ago, and he’d been expecting to have to convince her or something, had already built up the argument in his head, when she settled into bed beside him one night and said “By the way, you don’t mind if I move in, right? I mean, I basically already live here, anyway,” casual as anything. He was almost disappointed he didn’t get to make his speech.

He wasn’t really expecting her to spend Christmas with him though. He thought she’d fly out to see her mom or something, but apparently her mom has discovered the wonder of Caribbean cruise ships in her recent retirement, and is spending most of December on one. She’ll be in town for New Years, staying in their guest room, which Bellamy should probably be worried about, but really he’s just kind of excited. He’s pretty new at the whole boyfriend thing, but he feels like he’s doing a good job, and he kind of wants to take whatever significant other test Dr. Griffin tries to throw at him. He’s a little competitive, okay? He likes feeling like he’s earned something. He also likes to show off.

“I know how much you cuddle.” She loops another round of lights around the tree. It’s a real tree, because Bellamy can’t stand the fake ones. Clarke says it’s because he’s pretentious, but really he just likes the smell of Frasier Fir. The lights are purple and black, because they’re Clarke’s, and those are her signature colors.

“I’ve never heard you complain,” Bellamy points out, scooping Cupid off the windowsill where he was leaning to bat at one of the fancy glass ornaments Clarke brought with her when she moved in. He already has Psyche under the other arm, because she was getting too carried away with the tinsel. He should probably rethink his collection of cats, if for no other reason than saving some time.

“I’m not complaining,” Clarke shrugs, careful not to dislodge Percy. “I like cats.”

She says that, but she’s been walking Octavia and Lincoln’s new dog. It’s a mutt from the shelter that only comes up to Bellamy’s shin, with stringy hair and bald patches. Octavia claims he’s part-terrier of some sort, and he might be, but mostly he just looks like a mop that needs to be replaced. Its name is Fenrir, and it absolutely does not deserve it.

(“You got a _dog_ together,” Bellamy said, when Octavia told him. Fenrir was eyeing him suspiciously from her lap, not sure if he could be trusted. “That’s a total couple thing to do. It’s like, pre-baby phase.”

Octavia made a face, and then glared at him for good measure. “Fenrir needed a good home, and we have one to give him. That’s it. Can you please just ask Clarke about walking him?”

“You know she’ll say yes,” Bellamy rolled his eyes. Clarke worked from home, and usually got antsy in the afternoons. Plus, unlike him, she had no aversions to dogs. Bellamy was just camped too firmly on the Team Cat lawn—liking both would feel disloyal. “But you should still tell Lincoln how you feel. Right now I’m doing better than you in the romance department, and it feels weird. Get on that.”

Octavia just scoffed, but when Bellamy went to scratch Fenrir’s ear, he bit him, and he’s still pretty sure it was his sister’s fault.)

Clarke’s been walking Fenrir for a few weeks now, and she always has some cute story to share with him when he gets home, about the dog tripping over his own feet, or falling face-first into some leaves, or something. Most of her camera scroll is taken up by the mutt’s grungy face, with his tongue that doesn’t fit in his mouth, and his teeth that spill over his lips, all lopsided.

Bellamy’s pretty sure she’s in love with the thing, which he’s fine with, but he’s also pretty sure it means she sort of wants a dog.

Which—well, he doesn’t _hate_ dogs, and his landlord hasn’t said anything about the eleven cats currently ruling over his apartment, so he’s pretty sure one more pet won’t push the envelope or anything.

And it would make Clarke happy, which is the only real incentive he needs.

“Hey, space-case,” Clarke flicks him in the nose, and Bellamy jerks back, unaware he’d even zoned out. He still gets up at four every morning for work, and it’s already after nine o clock, which is way past his bedtime. Clarke thinks it’s hilarious, since she’s mostly a night owl, but since she’s in charge of her own schedule, she usually just wakes up and hangs out while he gets ready, and then takes naps while he’s at work.

She’s grinning at him now, wearing some shiny dark red—almost black—lipstick, the kind that smudges on his skin wherever she kisses him. He’s found spots of it in places he didn’t even think to look, before, and he usually takes a picture to text it to her, because he thinks it’s hilarious. She’s slightly territorial, and it’s the best.

She’s also wearing his faded Batman shirt, and nothing else, so it’s easy for him to slide his hands up under it, to splay on the skin of her back. Her eyes go from laughing to heated in seconds.

“We have to finish the tree,” she says, but she doesn’t sound too convinced.

Bellamy slides a hand up in her hair—she recently dyed it completely white, which just makes her eyes look bluer, and he can’t seem to stop playing with it, watching it catch the light and turn different colors.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” he shrugs, leaning down to press a line of wet open-mouthed kisses along her neck, while she tips her head back, inviting. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“We work better under pressure, anyway,” she agrees, tossing the rest of the lights down without a word, and he laughs.

“That was easy,” he teases, and she hums a little, wrapping her arms around his neck so she can run her hands through his hair.

“I know what I want,” she chirps, and his grip on her spine tightens.

“And what is it you want?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, clicking her tongue. “You, obviously.” She kisses him before he can respond, licking into his mouth without warning, so he can feel the cool metal of her tongue ring, pressed against the roof of his mouth so he whines.

“Come on,” she tugs him back towards the bathroom. “The cats always stare at us when we fuck on the couch.”

There are cats on the bed, too, of course. There are cats on every surface of the apartment. Bellamy glares down at the three on his comforter. “Scram,” he orders, and they each rise slowly, stretching their toes and backs, licking their lips disdainfully before jumping to the ground, just so he’ll know they’re not doing it because he _told_ them to. They just have somewhere else to be. Somewhere better.

“You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” Clarke teases, shrugging out of his shirt, and then pokes him when he doesn’t answer.

In his defense, her boobs are very distracting, which she already seems to know. Whenever he finds a dish that wasn’t washed completely before put in the cupboard, she just takes off her shirt right there in the kitchen. He’d like to say that doesn’t work on him, but, well. He’s not a _saint_.

“Not yet,” he says, pushing her down on the bed and crowding her, but she just laughs and wiggles around, until they’ve rolled over so she’s on top.

“In case you pass out,” she says, bending to kiss him. “I don’t want you to crush me.”

Bellamy huffs a little but doesn’t argue; he’s used to all the old man jokes by now, and they’re sort of warranted. But he can live with falling asleep early at night—he’s the _best_ at morning sex, even Clarke agrees.

He doesn’t pass out until after, like, immediately, which Clarke makes fun of in the morning, even as she yawns into his kiss. And then they’re interrupted by a loud crash from the living room, and when he rushes to investigate, he finds the Christmas tree on the floor.

“Tree down,” he calls out, right as Clarke walks in with a baseball bat. It’s been spray painted a monochrome pink, and he’s not sure where she even got it. He’s never seen it before.

“Fucking cats,” Clarke grouses, because she’s decidedly _not_ a morning person, and then pads back into the bedroom, leaving him to take care of the mess.

That’s really the beginning of the end of it all.

The cats manage to knock the tree over five more times throughout the day, most of which he misses because he’s at work, so by the time he comes home, Clarke is frazzled, hair all staticy from pure rage.

“Discipline your children,” she barks, and marches out to go walk Fenrir. It’s December, and cold enough for winter clothes, but mostly that just means Clarke throws on a pair of dark patterned tights under all her usual skirts and dresses. Also, she has a really nice coat that she likes to show off. It’s black, like everything else she wears, with ruffles.

“Et tu, Brutus?” Bellamy says to the chubby tabby by his feet, and then laughs at his own joke.

He gets the tree righted and the needles all swept up before Clarke gets home, and then she swipes a kiss to his cheek before leaving again, so he can have dinner with Octavia. It’s not that she and Octavia don’t like each other; they do, and they even get lunch a couple days a week. But she also knows that sometimes the Blake’s need some strictly-Blake-time, and he never even has to ask.

He’s finishing up the Portobello chicken, in a crock pot because he just bought it a few days ago and was excited to try it out, and exits out of the All Recipes app on his phone, so he can pretend he’s more talented than he is.

Octavia heaves herself up on the stool with a sigh. “Fuck Gamer Gate,” she says darkly, and Bellamy dishes them both up some food.

“Fuck Gamer Gate,” he agrees, sliding in beside her. “So, I’m thinking about getting Clarke a puppy for Christmas.” He pauses for a minute while O stares at him. “Or just a dog in general, I guess. It doesn’t have to be a puppy.”

His sister narrows her eyes, suspicious, just like her dog. It’s creepy. “Is this code for something?” she demands. “You said getting a dog was the pre-baby phase.”

“It is,” he shrugs, because he’s not in denial about it, or anything. He’s planning on spending the rest of his life with Clarke, in whatever capacity they decide. Really the only thing he’s waiting for is timing. “We’re actually moving at like, the perfect relationship pace,” he gloats, because he can. He’s in a committed, long-term relationship with his awesome girlfriend, and he’s smug about it. He ticks the list off on his fingers. “We met, we hung out, we started dating, we moved in together. Next step is getting a dog, and then getting married, and then kids.”

Octavia looks more amused than concerned, which he takes as a good sign. “Does Clarke know about your to-do list?”

He shrugs again, taking a huge bite of chicken for no real reason than to spite her. Octavia’s a fan of instant gratification, and now she has to wait for him to chew and swallow before answering. “Not yet, but that’s what the dog’s for. She’ll get the hint.”

“You guys _are_ weirdly in sync,” O makes a face, and he pokes her with his fork.

“Kind of like you and Lincoln,” he points out, because it’s true.

“Bell I swear to god if you bring up my roommate every time we hang out together, I’m going to stop coming over,” she threatens, and he knows it’s empty, because she’d never turn down a free meal, but. She has a point; he’d _hated_ it when she meddled, so it’s only fair.

“Alright, but you have to help me find Clarke’s dog,” he says, like he hadn’t planned on asking her to, anyway. Octavia rolls her eyes, not fooled at all.

“Duh. _You_ can’t be trusted to do it.”

Bellamy doesn’t bother arguing that because, well, yeah.

They go to a few shelters, and Octavia keeps having to drag him past the cages filled with mewling kittens and battle scarred toms, because otherwise he’d just take them all home with him. They visit with a lot of different dogs, some purebred, most mutts, some puppies, but most older. One is a veteran police dog, a nice-looking German Shepherd named Dax, but even though he lays his head on Octavia’s lap almost immediately, he nearly claws Bellamy’s face off.

“You really are the worst at dogs,” O says, clearly delighted about it. “Maybe you should reserve one while it’s still in the womb. That way it can imprint on you. I feel like that’s the only way you’ll find one that doesn’t want to kill you, basically immediately.”

“Is that an option?” he asks, because it’s not like he _knows_.

Octavia gives him a look like she’s not sure whether or not his stupidity could be grounds for murder. She must decide not, because she just sighs, exasperated, and thrusts a squirming body into his hands.

It’s a puppy, part bloodhound and part something else, but mostly made up of wrinkles and a pair of long floppy ears way too big for its body. It starts to lick his face pretty much instantly, leaving streaks of drool down both his cheeks.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, because it’s a baby, and he doesn’t want the animal shelter employees to judge him. He tries to set it down, but it just starts whining, and trying to clamber back into his lap, like it belongs there.

“I think you’ve found your dog Skip,” O muses. She’s currently covered in dogs, puppies and old dogs alike, like she’s their queen or something. “Clarke will love him—she’s a sucker for the dopey ones.”

“Thanks,” he says drily, which turns out to be a mistake, because the puppy takes the advantage and sticks its tongue in his mouth, so he chokes.

Octavia cackles about it for the whole ride home.

He doesn’t name the puppy, since it’s technically for Clarke, so he takes to calling it some variation of _buddy_ each time he visits O’s house. They’re keeping it there until Christmas, and O canceled Fenrir’s afternoon walks just in case. Clarke’s a little sad about it, even though she’s pretending not to be, but Bellamy actually thinks it’s working out pretty well—Lincoln made an intricate schedule on a spreadsheet, of when he and Octavia can take turns walking the dogs.

It also means that since the puppy isn’t housebroken yet, it pees on Octavia’s rugs, and not his. It’s really a win-win, as far as Bellamy’s concerned, even if he does get a lot more angry texts from his sister than usual. She’s been using the poop emoji a lot.

Clarke, meanwhile, is slowly being driven insane by the cats. When they’re not tearing apart her Christmas decorations, or knocking ornaments off the tree, they’re walking right into the middle of the living room and _yowling_ until she comes out to pick them up. They’re not really sure _why_ the cats are doing this, but Octavia thinks it’s abandonment issues, which is still her go-to explanation for most things. He has no idea how she’s passing any of her psych classes.

The day of Christmas Eve sees Bellamy sleeping in for once, with Clarke tucked in around him, all warm, naked skin, and he’s debating whether or not to keep sleeping, or wake her up with his head between his thighs. She gives a little mewl and rolls over on her back, which makes his mind up for him, really.

She’s awake and keening when there’s a series of smashes from the living room and kitchen, and Clarke swears under her breath, tightening her grip on his hair until he sees stars.

“If you move, I will murder you,” she promises, and Bellamy believes her, so he makes a broad swipe with his tongue so she sighs.

When they _do_ finally make it out of the bedroom, it’s to what’s become a common scene; Christmas tree knocked over, fancy ornaments cracked and broken, nativity figurines knocked off the shelf, paper snowflakes no longer dangling from the ceiling. Clarke sighs and starts to collect the strewn tinsel, while Bellamy heads for the broom.

“How did you survive Christmas last year?” she wonders, and he isn’t sure why he locks up; it’s a pretty valid question, and it’s not like she _knows_.

“I, uh, don’t really do Christmas, usually.” He tries to shrug it off, but Clarke’s not having it, and she puts a hand on his hip to turn him.

“You were dancing to Bing Crosby all last week,” she says, amused. “What do you mean you _don’t do Christmas_?”

“My mom died in December, so O and I never really got into the whole spirit of the season, or whatever. And usually we just have dinner and presents at her house, since it’s bigger, and Lincoln never has plans either.”

Clarke eyes him a little, like she’s cataloguing each of his features. He does this sometimes, looks like she’s studying him, figuring him out like a math problem. And then she leans up on her toes to press a kiss to his mouth, just at the corner and impossibly soft. Loving.

“Well tonight we’re having dinner and presents here,” she says, dropping back down. “So help me clean before everyone shows up.”

They do manage to get the apartment clean, and the decorations replaced, before Lincoln and Octavia arrive. Bellamy locks the cats up in the bedroom, which means they’ll probably throw up in all his shoes in protest, but he’ll deal with that later.

When he comes back out, it’s just in time to see his sister and her best friend get trapped, unsuspecting, under the first sprig of mistletoe.

(“How many do we need?” he’d asked, amused, watching Clarke pin the fourth bit of plant up above the sofa.

“As many as it takes to get your sister and her roommate to make out and realize they’re in love with each other,” she said cheerfully. She was wearing one of her lacey corset dresses, a deep green, with bright red fishnets on her legs. There was a hole on the inside of her thigh that he wanted to see if he could fit his hand through.

“So, it’s like a romantic minefield,” he mused, helping her back down the stepladder. The cats were already staring up at all the mistletoe intently, tails slashing through the air as they tried to figure out how to hunt them. “You’re setting my little sister up.”

“Love is a battlefield, Bellamy,” she grinned, leaning in, and he couldn’t help but agree.)

“ _Psst_!” Clarke hissed, from the corner where she, Monty and Miller were clearly pretending not to spy on O and Lincoln, looking awkward and painful under the kitchen arch. Monty’s cheeks were already starting to puff up, but Clarke had run a lint roller over all the furniture, to get rid of as much cat hair as possible before he arrived, so he’ll probably be fine. Probably.

Bellamy makes his way over to them, and takes the glass of wine she hands him, with a grin. She still hates the stuff, but she’s recently decided she likes the fizzy kind sold at Walmart, so he’s working her into Merlot. It’s a process.

Suddenly, Miller and Monty start letting out wolf whistles and whoops, and when Bellamy looks over, he sees Lincoln has finally stepped forward, and is kissing O up against the counter. And then Bellamy very quickly looks away, because Lincoln is kissing O up against the counter, and it goes against every instinct in his body, not to go over and wrench them apart.

Clarke elbows him a little, looking cheeky. “You wanted this, remember?”

“I wanted them to be _happy_ ,” he grumbles. “I didn’t want him to stick his tongue down her throat.”

“Maybe you should go hang out with the cats,” Clarke suggests, and he actually considers it.

He doesn’t, obviously, and they have to break apart for air eventually, Octavia flushing bright red and positively _beaming_ , so. It could be worse, all things considered.

“Only took you six years,” he teases, when she finally wanders back over, Lincoln’s hand clasped tightly in hers. She makes a face.

“Clarke’s present is still in my apartment,” she says pointedly, and Clarke perks up, even from where she’s having a conversation with Miller all the way across the room.

“What did you get me?” she asks, bright and happy and probably drunk, if the mostly-empty bottle in her hand is any indication. All she’s had to eat today was some of the stuffed celery Bellamy made that morning, and Clarke has a shitty alcohol tolerance anyway, so it doesn’t take much.

“It’s from me, actually,” Bellamy says, melting a little when she instantly brightens, like the fact that it’s from him makes it the best present ever.

Lincoln’s already left to go bring back the puppy, and gets back as soon as they’ve all set out the food.

The puppy’s paws slip and slide across the hardwood as he trips on his own ears, and the first thing he does when he runs in, is pee right on the carpet.

“Ha!” Octavia cries, because she’s an asshole, and Bellamy glares at the thing as he fetches the Green Works, because that won’t bleach the rug.

Clarke, of course, falls in love with the puppy immediately, wrinkles and sniper tongue and all. She feeds it scraps under the table all through dinner, which Bellamy _knows_ is a terrible habit that he should not condone, but. It’s hard to say no, on Christmas—or, well, Christmas Eve.

Everyone leaves right after dinner, which was more like an early lunch, to go do couple things on their own. Meanwhile, Bellamy starts on the dishes, while Clarke opens the bedroom door, to introduce the puppy to his siblings.

He was a little worried about the cats, to be honest, sure that they’d be outraged at the addition to the family—but instead, they’re just very intrigued.

“They keep batting at his ears,” Clarke says, delighted. “Like they think they’re not attached to him. He doesn’t know which one of them he wants to play with first.”

But it escalates as the evening goes on—they start _teaming up_ , to destroy things. The cats will climb the tree and bat the ornaments down, for the dog to play with. They’re a menace, honestly.

“I’m not giving you your present tonight,” Clarke warns, flopping down on his stomach where he’s sprawled out on the couch, looking up the Jimmy Stuart movie on demand. “You have to wait till tomorrow.” She scoops the puppy up from where it’s bouncing erratically on the floor, like if it doesn’t join them on the sofa, it might actually _die_. It’s a bit of a drama queen, Bellamy’s beginning to realize. Which is fine; he’ll fit right in.

He curls an arm around Clarke’s stomach, anchoring her to his chest, and only grimaces a little when the puppy starts licking his hand.

Clarke’s facing the TV, away from him, but her voice is soft and mostly serious when she says “A dog is a lot of responsibility, you know.” He keeps his hand where it is around her, so she has to work at twisting herself around, until they’re face to face. “More than a cat. They need a lot of attention, and work, and—”

“I know,” he grins, and he’s pretty sure neither of them are actually talking about the dog. He leans forward to press a kiss to her eyes when she closes them with a sigh. The dog is a warm, squirming presence between them, and he doesn’t even mind.

He pulls back and she opens her eyes to look at him.

“I think we can handle it.”


End file.
